


Collection of Abandoned WIP's

by rosemusiclive



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Collection of WIPs, GAU AU, Non AU, Urban Magic Yogs, multiple au's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 15:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13216506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemusiclive/pseuds/rosemusiclive
Summary: A collection of a few works I have either given up on, lost interest in, or have not completed for other reasons. Various AU's and ships within, check each chapter summary for warnings/ship details. Just thought I might post them to get writing feedback, and if any of you love them enough I may just finish a couple.





	1. Vegas [SMORNBY]

Sighing into the pillow that was pressed against his face, Ross winced at the pain in his head and the strong smell of last night’s whiskey on his own breath. He was lying face down, he could tell that much, and if the raging headache and lack of memory from the previous evening was any indication, it was likely he had passed out this way. Screwing his eyes shut against the bright light coming from somewhere, Ross groaned and rolled over onto his side. 

Due to his delirious state, he almost missed the small; “shit”, that was breathed out onto his face.

Eyes snapping open, Ross blinked in surprise under the stare of the stranger inches from his face. Cerulean eyes met his own, and gingery brown curls pillowed the area around the strangers’ lightly freckled face. A light dusting of stubble peppered his chin, and Ross had vague flashbacks of it scratching his face the night before. 

Sitting up, Ross gazed down at the stranger in his hotel bed, and his eyes were instantly drawn to his shirtless form.

“Um.” Was all Ross could manage before the stranger interrupted.

“Who the fuck are you?” He asked, the bitter tone surprising Ross.

“Excuse me?” Ross questioned.

“How did you get in my hotel room?” The man said, sitting up himself. 

“Your hotel room?” Ross was very confused by this point. He was sure that shirt on the floor was his own. 

"Yes, my fucking hotel room!" The man shouted, gesturing around wildly. 

As he madly swung his arm around to point out the amount of stuff that was definitely not Ross', Ross was painfully jerked forward by his wrist. Letting out a yelp that was more surprise than pain, Ross narrowed his eyes in confusion as he looked towards his arm. 

"Oh come on!" The stranger yelled, also spotting the silver pair of handcuffs that chained them together. 

“What the fuck?” Ross questioned, drawing his wrist up to his face to inspect the chain further.

“What did you do?” The stranger asked, looking intently at his own cuff. Ross’ left wrist was attached to the stranger’s right, for convenience sake he guessed. Sighing at his truly shitty situation, Ross lay back on the bed.

“This is your fault.” The stranger growled, glaring down at Ross.

“What the fuck dude?” Ross yelled back, having enough of the stranger’s rudeness. “How is this my fault?”

“I don’t know how you did this.” The stranger continued, ignoring the question entirely. “But you better undo it pretty quickly.”

“If I had done this.” Ross said, hiding his frustration behind a calm tone. “Why the fuck do you think I would be still handcuffed to you?”

Ross vigorously shook the cuff in the stranger's face, attempting to make him see reason.

“Okay.” The stranger said through gritted teeth, suppressing his anger. “Then what do we do?”

“Shit.” Ross said. “Shit, I - I don’t know okay?”

Starting to panic, Ross ran a nervous hand through his hair.

“We just need to figure out how this happened in the first place, and then work forward from there. We can find the key if we remember why we’re locked together in the first place.”

“Yeah.” The stranger nodded, a lot more reasonable now that he had cooled off a little. 

“So let’s start with the basics, who are you?” Ross asked. The question sounded weird coming out of his mouth, and Ross decided that this was because when you wake up half naked and chained to someone you should at least know their name first.

“Smith.” The guy - Smith? Replied. “Uh, Alex Smith. Just Smith is fine.”

“Sure.” Ross said. “I’m Ross.”

“Right.” Smith nodded, there was an awkward pause. “This feels weird.”

“Yeah.” Ross laughed. Wow, was that a smile from the angry man he had woken up next to?

“So uh.” Smith continued, scratching the back of his head. “What are you doing here? In Vegas I mean.”

“Bachelor party.” Ross shrugged. “The usual.” 

“Same.” Smith chuckled. “Old friend of mine is getting married next week. Decided to do the big Vegas trip he always dreamed of.”

“Yeah?” Ross smiled. “Mines the same, Uni buddy though.”

\--


	2. Party Hard [GAU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a Gods Among Us AU fic that was a chapter swap challenge with another writer. The deal fell through in the end, but this is the first chapter I wrote.

Lalna is fun.

Lalna is fast cars and loud music and drinks with little umbrellas in. Lalna is laughter and confetti and that sleepy high you get at 3am. Lalna is hugs and warmth and the feeling of comfort encompassing your body.

Sadly, however, the Gods are as flawed as the rest of humanity.

Lalna is arrogant. Lalna is selfish. He can be unkind, uncompassionate, unreliable. He must be the centre of attention. He has been swept up in the modern day lifestyle and gripped by the claws of greed. He knows this, and he does not care.

Lalna is forever young, and he fucking loves it.

It’s 1923, and the jazz scene has travelled to Chicago from New Orleans by boat and flourished here. Somewhere around 75,000 southern immigrants have settled in the south side of the city, now known as ‘The Stroll’, and they’ve bought their swing with them. Late night clubs billow out the sounds of trumpets into the night air like heavy smoke, and Lalna lets it wash over him with a smile.

Bootlegged liquor rests on everyone’s lips, making laughter louder and minds foggier. Lalna runs with the big leagues, various suits aim to win his affections with gifts of money and women. He needs none of it, but accepts the interesting offers, things that he can add to his collection of memories. His house is large, gated, and full of life. He litters it with adventures and experiences, hanging photo frames from the walls and covering the shelves with random memorabilia. 

His friend circle is large and inclusive. He frequents the Balaban and the Katz and the Oriental for any performance they’ve got going, the actors wave at him from the wings and invite him backstage after the show. The waiters at the Sunset Cafe remember his order, and offer him a free drinks when they think no-one’s looking. The clubs in the Stroll are his favorite, they’re small and crowded and everyone remembers his white face. They have the best music by far. 

Friends flock to his side with ease, and he makes a name to himself fast. He draws the attention of gangsters, politicians, and anyone with a slight lick of authority. It’s easy enough to win them over. Nowadays people are greedy enough to accept most forms of seduction without resistance. Whatever he’s offering, whether it be a cigarette or a place in the latest broadway show, it’s rare for people to turn him down.

He’s always able to pay for a meal, always able to save a friend's neck when in trouble, always able to talk an angry hot head down. They love him. 

It didn’t take long for him to be approached by the Chicago Outfit, pinstriped suits and Italian accents knocking at his door. He went with them willingly, their presence in the city had sparked an interest with him; they offered a new format of fun. He doesn’t care much for formalities, and Al Capone seems a little irritated that he shows no sign of discomfort when gagged and tied to a chair. Instead, Lalna cocks an eyebrow and waits. They both know that if anyone’s walking out of here alive, it’s gonna be him. 

Lalna accepts the mob boss’ ‘offer’ of friendship, and smirks. At least he wouldn’t have to use force this way. In the coming months, his name spreads over the lips of almost everyone in the city. His circle of friends grows exponentially, and he has dealings in just about everything these days. Everyone knows the kind blonde stranger. He makes a name for himself.

He’s always got dealings with the messier parts of the underground, always able to come out of a fight unscathed, always got one foot in the gutter and the other on your neck. They fear him.

One of his dolls got mad once, clutched her shirt over her naked body and smacked him. He shrugged it off and stepped back, she just didn’t understand his idea of a fun time. How could you? She hung her head as if the entirety of Chicago was leaning on her shoulders, he revelled in it. Who are you? Lalna slipped of the door and hopped into the first streetcar he saw. Someone recognised him and waved. He returned with a sincere smile. Everybody knows his name.

It’s 1923, and he’s the king of Chicago.

Tonight the moon shines bright, and Lalna sends a mental nod to Ross for the light; it makes the streets shine. Laughter tumbles out of the club as Lalna steps in. The band onstage is covering a familiar King Oliver tune, and the crowd loves it. His current doll, Ruth, hangs off of his arm as if the music overwhelms her, and Lalna smiles. Robert claps him on the back and pulls his wife, Betty, closer. The rest of the boys drift into the crowd, picking up girls on the way. Lalna heads towards the bar.

Recognition in his eyes, the bartender slings a drink his way automatically, and Lalna nods his way in appreciation. Ruth giggles at the sheer atmosphere of the room and Lalna can’t help but grin, her laugh is his favourite part of her. Robert orders drinks for himself and Betty, shaking his head as he looks around. 

“How’d you find this place, fella?” He asks, and Lalna shrugs. 

“I like to go everywhere.” Lalna smiles. “Occasionally I find a nice spot and stick with it.”

“It’s swanky.” Robert nods. This is why Lalna keeps him around, Robert is so impressed with everything Lalna shows him.

“We’re gonna dance.” Ruth says, grabbing Betty by the wrist. 

“Get hot.” Lalna grins, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She giggles and bites her lip, before snapping one of his suspender straps and twirling away into the crowd, Betty in tow.

“She’s a real bearcat, huh.” Robert says, waving at his wife.

“She sure is.” Lalna grins. He doesn’t experience attraction, doesn’t see the point in it, and he’s got no intention of shacking up with the girl. But Ruth laughs loud and is always down to have fun, and that’s all Lalna really needs in a partner.

He’d picked her up a few months ago, in a club not unlike this one. Her vibrant red hair and loud laugh drew his gaze, and he watched appreciatively as she danced with her friends, accepting drinks from various men. A smirk and a dance later, she was his. She’d instigated the necking, which surprised and delighted him, and when she broke it off to mention she knew of an illegal street race they could go to downtown, he knew she was going to be long term.

Smoke and laughter hang in the air, and the club is warm enough for Lalna to loosen his tie and unbutton his collar. Ruth sets her sights on him with appreciative eyes, he smiles and dances with her until her cheeks flush a heavy red. Occasionally he steals dances from other girls; Ruth doesn’t mind, she appreciates the openness of their relationship just as much as he does. Once, Robert had asked him if Ruth necking with other men bothered him, the nature of their relationship confused him in the most adorable way. Lalna had shrugged with a bemused smile. It’s just a bit of fun. No foul. 

Now, she nods in certification at his choice of girl, and he grins at her over the brunette stranger’s shoulder. After the song ends, he presses a kiss to the girl’s hand and wanders back to the bar. He’s being appreciating the singer’s voice all evening, and now he takes a break from the pulsing crowd to lose himself in the sultry jazz tones.

The singer’s pretty too. A blue-eyed cutie with cropped brunette hair, curled up to her ears. Her headdress is an elegant but simple black sash, her pearls shine with abundance, her red dress almost glistens under the house lights. Her gloves reach up to her elbows. Her dress comes up to just under the knee. She’s clearly attractive, all wide smile and bright eyes. She walks the line between flashy and trashy in a way that’s hard to do these days.

“Eyeing the Jane, huh?” The bartender asks, drifting over to Lalna with another free glass of brown.

“She’s good.” Lalna says, and the man nods agreement. “What’s her name?”

“Not sure, she goes by Dodger for a stage name.”

“Dodger.” Lalna mumbles, his brain is a whir.

The jazz scene is the new trend, and Lalna needs something to pass the time. He’s been thinking about opening a jazz joint near the centre of town. It shouldn’t be too hard. There’s an abandoned theater on the Chicago Loop that he’s been planning on buying, and he can fix it up pretty quick. He can see this girl, Dodger, there already. She would be perfect.

With a cute smile, Dodger finishes up her tune and gives the audience a quick wink before bouncing offstage. Lalna admires her jovial attitude. He makes a mental note to talk to the manager of this joint about buying her out. This is quite a classy establishment, and the owners must be fairly well off, but in this day and age there’s nothing a promise of protection can’t buy.

At this point, the heat has become a little uncomfortable, and Lalna steps into the cool air outside for a smoke. Leaning against the dirtied wall of the alleyway next to the club, he lights his cigarette and eyes the passers by. Humans are quite fascinating to him, and if his constant need for activity didn’t nag him as it did he would watch them interact for hours.

After a few minutes of rest, Lalna’s steady thoughts of this jazz club idea is broken by a shout from further down the alley. Interested in the commotion, Lalna pushes himself off the wall and starts towards the noise.

In the gloom, he can see two figures pressed against each other. They’re both men, and one is trapping the other against the wall. Lalna raises his eyebrows in surprise as he realises they’re necking. Well, only one of them, the other is struggling against his strong grip and making vague scared noises. Lalna is about to step in, but the one pushing against the wall steps away before he can, and punches the other in the jaw with such strength that it knocks him down.

“Fucking fairy!” He shouts, a terrified look on his face, before looking up at Lalna and sprinting past him into the street. Lalna, in such a state of surprise, forgets to try and stop the fleeing man, and instead turns back to the other.

He’s on the floor, wiping his mouth of blood from the now split lip and shaking. Tall and dark haired, he looks well built, and Lalna wonders why he wasn’t able to push the smaller man away. However, he realises that’s not an appropriate thing to ask right now, and steps in to assist.

“Are you alright?” Lalna asks, reaching down to help the guy get up. The stranger bats his hand away before he can, pushing himself up. Ross offers them some more light, and Lalna can see his face now. 

This man is mathematically beautiful. An architectural masterpiece with each feature being carefully sculpted to fit in perfect cohesion with the others. Dark hair and eyes lend themselves to the engraved cheekbones, leading down to composed pink lips. He’s incredibly symmetrical, and holds himself with such a intrinsic gracefulness Lalna thinks he has to be God-born. And this is likely true, as Lalna can sense the divinity reeking off him, likely the cause of his perfection. He’s not a God, but he’s something.

And it’s likely the man can sense Lalna’s own celestial being, as he freezes, eyes wide.

“Are you alright?” Lalna asks again, now he’s seemed to catch this guys attention. There aren’t many Gods walking around in mortal form nowadays, maybe 10 or 20 still on the planet, so it’s likely this guy hasn’t met one before.

“Yeah.” He mumbles, straightening his tie before sticking out a hand to shake. “Strippin. Sam Strippin.”

“Lalna.” He shakes the man’s, Sam’s, hand, and offers him a grin. There’s a small smile in return, and if Lalna could feel attraction he reckons he’d be head over heels by now.

“You’re, um, the God of Fun, right?” Sam asks, almost nervously. Lalna nods, and Sam’s eyes widen a little before he looks away.

“That guy -” Lalna starts, but Sam waves it off.

“It’s alright. He’s the boss’ son so there’s really nothing I can do about it.”

“He hit you. Assaulted you.” Lalna points out, but Sam shrugs.

“Yeah and I let him. If he goes home with any marks whatsoever I’d be out on the street in a second.”

“I can get you a better job.” 

“Aw, thank you, but no.” Sam says, almost bashfully. “I have reasons for staying. And it wasn’t his fault anyway. Not many people can keep their hands off me.”

Lalna doesn’t think he’s heard anyone say that last sentence in a serious context before. But coming out of this man’s mouth he doesn’t doubt it’s grave realism. Due to his incredible beauty, Sam must be the constant centre of attention, getting the eyes from both gals and guys it seems. Lalna is a little envious, but by Sam’s expression he doubts that the man enjoys it. There’s a moment of silence, before Lalna goes to ask one more question.

“Are you -”

“No!” Sam interrupts, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not, you know, an invert or nothing.”

“Oh!” Lalna says, almost laughs. “No, I didn’t mean that. I don’t really care about that. I was just wondering if you are a succubus or something.”

“Not quite that exciting, no.” Sam says, and it almost looks like he wants to laugh. “Uh, I’m a siren.”

“Oh.” Lalna says. “That makes sense. You sing then?”

It sounds like he’s punching the bag, but Lalna is genuinely interested. He’s been around for a long time, but he doesn’t think he’s ever met a siren before. Sam seems to appreciate the interest, but shakes his head.

“No, Don’t wanna draw any more attention to myself than I do already. Gets me unwanted affection most of the time.”

Lalna thinks back to the man earlier, and nods in sad understanding.

“So what do you do here then?” He asks.

“Just stagehand stuff, you know, behind the scenes jobs.” Sam shrugs. “Sometimes, if we’re entertaining a very important guest, the boss will make me go out and tap dance, or play double bass or piano.”

Lalna’s mind flicks instantly to his jazz club idea, and he’s about to pose it to Sam before the stage door swings open into the alley, and Dodger steps out.

“Oh shit.” Sam says, instantly freezing and darting to hide behind Lalna.

“Uh?” Lalna manages, before Sam shushes him violently. 

Dodger smiles politely at Lalna, before lighting a cigarette and walking into the street. Once she’s definitely out of sight, Sam stops his cowering and steps away from Lalna, who raises a confused eyebrow.

“She’s, um, my reason for staying.” Sam blushes, it’s cute.

“You’re carrying a torch, huh?” Lalna prompts.

“Yeah.” Sam mumbles, and Lalna smiles.

“Cute.” He grins. “I’m sure she’d like you.”

“Yeah, but, I don’t want her to like me for this.” Sam says, pointing to his face. He moves his finger down to his chest, his heart, instead. “I want her to like me for this.”

“Ah, I see.” Lalna nods, and a spark of a thought appears somewhere in the back of his mind. “Well I’m thinking of starting this little jazz joint on the Chicago Loop, and I’m thinking of making her my star doll.”

“Oh?” Sam says, looking a little panicked by the idea of Celeste leaving.

“Yeah, she’s a dime for sure, the crowd will love her.” Lalna says, he can almost see it now. “But how about this: you come too.”

Sam blinks, and doesn’t even get to say ‘wha-’ before Lalna interrupts him.

“Be my stageman, work up close and personal with her. Get to know her, yeah?” Lalna nods encouragingly. “Maybe do some tap, if you feel good enough, wear a cabaret mask, then the crowd won’t be distracted by your face.” 

Sam seems to mull it over for about two seconds, before nodding vigorously.

“Yeah.” He grins, and it’s the first time Lalna thinks he’s seen the tall man properly smile. “Yeah. That would be great.”

“Here.” Lalna says, digging around in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a card. He likes to keep them on him at all times, just in case.

Sam takes the card, and inspects it for a second. He smiles, nods almost absentmindedly, and pockets the card. Lalna hears a particularly jumpy tune startup inside the club, and is vaguely reminded of his friends inside.

“Listen.” Lalna says. “I gotta scram, but drop me a dime, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Sam nods, and shakes Lalna’s hand once more. Lalna claps the taller man on the back, in comfort, and Sam grins. 

Lalna tips his hat, and makes his way back to the club, leaving Sam grinning in the alley. He clutches the card to his chest tightly. Lalna shoots him one final smile, and steps into the club, being encompassed by the smoke and jazz once more.


	3. Vegas [UMY]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an Urban Magic Yogs Hatsounds fic I started to write, and one I may yet finish. I do really like it, and I think the premise is cool, but I just lost my drive a bit I think.
> 
> Warnings: Graphic Violence, Knives, Eating Disorder mentions.

~ Greed ~

To Smith, Vegas is synonymous with sin.

Vegas air is thick and fat. Dark, sweet-smelling smoke that weighs down lungs. Flashes of neon and gold through the fog. It rests on Smith’s shoulders, pulls him down with lust and envy and greed. He walks with the gravity of misdeed on his collarbone, the soft whispers of hell on the tip of his spine, and he smiles. Eyes flash sinister. Blood shines gold. Smith breathes chaos.

Getting away from the city was a chore, and it had taken a lot of investigation and research. Their departure is only temporary, a holiday of sorts, and Smith can still feel the pull of the city in his chest. They’ve got seven days, that’s it. But it’s worth it, it’s all worth it, to come here. Las Vegas. 

The kelpie has always considered Vegas to be one of the best places on Earth. Vegas is a time capsule of mistakes, some sort of impenetrable bubble that cleanses you of your sins when you pass through it. Inside the bubble, you can do all sorts of grim things. Drink, gamble, get high, steal a car, fuck a girl in the backseat, kill her and dump her body on the side of the road. And as soon as you pass through that barrier, your innocence is refreshed, you’re a new man. 

What happens in Vegas, dies in Vegas.

Vegas shows you the worst side of yourself. Vegas sews your mouth shut when you leave and says ‘come back soon!’. Vegas is a shark tank filled with bloodied water, and everyone is hungry.

Smith’s a great white and he knows it. He steps through that barrier of purification and into the manufactured purgatory with a grin.

Seven days. Might as well make it worth it.

It’s a convenient night, the ebb and flow of energy pitches in just the right way. They’re near the main road, but far enough to go by mostly unnoticed, somewhere close to the centre of town. Ross is waiting for them in the car, listening to the radio, something with heavy bass. The night presses down on them, and Smith loves the sensation of it trickling down his spine.

Trott throws the man to the ground, ignoring his cries of pain. He’s beaten, bruised, and bleeding. Smith couldn’t give a shit, to be honest. Nano rests against the wall of the alleyway, smoking and twirling her bat in her hand, as if the heavy metal weighs nothing. She’s their compromise, told to go with them and keep them in check. Luckily for them, she’s got a soft spot for the litter boys, and Smith likes to exploit this as much as possible.

Smith smiles as she pushes herself off of the wall and kicks the man in the stomach, hard. The victim grunts and curls in on himself, and she spits on him. Smith catches her wrist as she wanders back to the wall, and presses a quick kiss to her bloodied knuckle. She regards him with armoured eyes. Slowly, he’s inking her skin, and she does nothing to stop him.

She slinks back over to the wall and melts into the shadow, taking another drag of the cigarette. They’re all dressed in suits. Black waistcoats and long ties. White shirts with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Tight black trousers and shined shoes. Once they had the prey in the boot of their car, they put the masks on.

Lion. Eagle. Wolf. And fox. Hunting together again.

He’s pleading now, and Trott tuts. 

“Wasting your time, mate.” The selkie says, wiping some blood from the man’s mouth with his thumb. The man whimpers and crawls back, instinctively trying to escape. Trott rolls his eyes, gets out his penknife, and stabs the guy in the knee. He screams.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Smith leers, stomping down on his other leg. More screaming, and Nano looks at him.

“Noise warning.” She says, her tone monotonous. “Finish up and let’s go.”

Smith rolls his eyes, and takes his own knife out. It’s gold tinted, because he’s a lavish drama queen, and it’s wealth glints in the neon light. He ends the kill’s life quickly and violently with a deep cut to his neck. Once the strangled sounds faded away, he slips off the corpses’ jacket.

“Another one for the collection.” Trott admires, arms crossed. Smith nods, and throws the bloodied thing over his shoulder. His white shirt taints red. Victory stains. 

Later, after it’s been cleaned and dried, he hangs it up amongst the others. A row of jackets he’s collected over the years. Gold cufflinks and silver pocket watches. When he spots something he likes, he can’t help himself. He takes what he wants. Finders keepers. Losers weepers.

Smith has reaching hands, and nails painted pink with venom.

 

~ Gluttony ~

Ross does not eat. He does not need to. He could if he wanted to, but he just doesn’t. Food costs money, and often it disgusts him. The sound of eating, chewing, swallowing. It repulses him, so much so that he doesn’t like watching people eat. It’s not like it does anything for him, so he just avoids the whole process.

As he technically has no living body to feed, the feeling of hunger is incomprehensibly foreign to Ross. Craving, need, that sort of desire is completely alien to him, and he doesn’t particularly want to experience it. He’s seen what that kind of longing does to people. He likens it to an addiction, yet another thing he cannot experience; an overwhelming drive to satisfy some innate urge.

In Ross’ opinion. Those who are overcome by their addiction let their minds be controlled by a singular drive, become puppets of their instincts. They will risk their safety and that of others to obtain relief, making them some of the most dangerous people around.

He’s aware that those with strong moral compasses know of their wrongdoings. They can avoid conflict and harming others, but those whose desires reside outside moral boundaries follow the social rules of a psychopath. Manipulative. Ruthless. Unsatisfiable. This type of addiction is commonly found in possessions that are synonymous with power, such as money or women or a good job. This type of social gluttony is the type that Ross fears the most. 

Vegas is rife with acclimatized hunger.

Casinos are Ross’ favourite places to hunt. The Bellagio is full tonight, and Ross sits in the audience of the Cirque du Soleil, waiting. Smith rests next to him, impatient fingers drumming along Ross’ thigh. Their ties are pulled sharp, their masks are strapped tight. No one questions the nature of their disguise. There are plenty of guarded faces in the crowd.

Somewhere, Trott is roaming, scouring the building for the appropriate victim. They’re not the most moral of courts, but if they’re going to hunt, it might as well be a kill that rids the world of something negative. It would be unfortunate for them to murder someone with a family, or an important job, or someone entirely innocent.

Even they, the most estranged of monsters, have basic rules. In some way, it keeps them sane.

In the veins of his arm, his blood buzzes. Smith’s hand tightens around his leg, and Ross knows the Lion feels the pull just as he does. They meet eyes, and Smith’s gleam dirty gold under his mask. Standing, they exit swiftly. Their court is calling.

It’s easy enough to find the Eagle. He’s leaning up against one of the unused poker tables, sweet talking the dealer. Ross recognises that smirk, those rolled up sleeves and slightly opened collar. Trott’s going for gain. 

They sidle up to the table in silence, and it’s almost loud amongst the noise of the floor. The dealer raises an eyebrow at the trio of masked figures, but it’s not the weirdest thing he’s seen during his time. 

Ross fixes his collar. Smith adjusts his cufflinks. Trott grins and speaks with a tongue that's heavy with persuasion.

“We’d like to see Mr Westwood.”

It doesn’t take long for them to reach the VIP area of the casino. A series of backrooms and curtained areas. The dealer leads them past security doors and suited bouncers into an old chamber, likely the origins of the building. The low ceiling and thick smoke tell enough on their own, but Ross guesses that this is where the deals are done.

The dealer leads them over to a booth in the corner, the low light is broken by the neon circular divider that surrounds the leather seating. It’s circular, and the entrance is covered by a thin sheet of sheen fabric. The dealer raises the curtain, and the three of them step in, sliding into the booth with natural ease.

Westwood raises an eyebrow, intrigued by the three masked men sitting opposite him. He’s the definition of the man in charge. Rich, powerful, he stinks of old money. West coast skin and loaded parents give him a relaxed pose and a girl under each arm. One of the girl’s eyes meet Ross’ and he gives the softest of nods; it’s still odd to see Nano in a dress, especially one as black and skintight as this. 

Smith notices the ashtray in the middle of the table, and pulls out a pack of Camels. Trott passes him his translucent lighter. Smith lights the cigarette, and stretches the packet out to Westwood, offering him one. Eying the three of them with guarded eyes, Westwood takes a cigarette and places it in between his teeth. He bares a grin, and leans forward to allow Smith to light it for him. There’s a moment of silence where the spark won’t catch, and then the end flares, both of them lean back slowly.

Westwood breathes out hot smoke, and Ross feels like he just missed some sort of gentleman's transaction.

“Smells sweet.” Westwood says, and Smith nods.

There’s a moment of quiet, and Nano taps the other girl on the shoulder behind Westwood’s back. She nods and quickly scoots out of the booth. Ross watches her leave, Westwood’s eyes don’t leave Smith. It’s fairly amusing, that he thinks he’s got a chance of out-chasing the Lion. 

“So.” Westwood says, taking a long drag of the cigarette. “What you lookin’ for fellas?”

“We’ve heard you can hook us up with something.” Trott says. He usually does the talking. Smith seduces, Ross intimidates, Trott convinces. 

“What kinda something?”

“The strong kind.”

Westwood nods, and takes another long drag. Smith’s eyes narrow, and Ross can feel the anger radiating off him. Smith likes it when the prey is afraid. Smith does not like it when the prey thinks they’ve got bigger claws than they do. Westwood’s a hamster acting like a bear.

“Shall we step outside and discuss this further?” Trott suggests, and something interesting tips his tongue. 

The pauses are becoming irritating, and Ross can feel it pulse around him. It mixes with the music and chatter of this darkened room in a culmination of overbearing white noise, and Ross watches as Nano’s eyes narrow. She feels it too. Luckily, he notices that Westwood’s grip on Nano’s waist has become slack, and his eyes are looking sleepy. This shouldn’t take long.

“Sure.” Westwood lazily shrugs, and Trott flashes that manipulative grin of his.

“Great, I believe there’s an exit over here somewhere.”

They lead him over to the side of the room, where an emergency exit sign glows dimly. Smith pushes it open and they step out into the night air. It’s cool and dark, and he leans against the wall of the club, making sure the door stays shut.

“So boys, what’re ya lookin’ for?” Westwood asks, he’s practically slurring at this point. He manages to take another long drag of the cigarette Smith gave him, and exhales sweet smoke.

“We’re looking for Michael Westwood, runner of the biggest drug ring in East Nevada.” Trott says, and Westwood looks a little surprised. Trott clicks his tongue before continuing. “Supplier of dealers and puppeteer of addicts.”

“Wha?” Westwood says, and Trott rolls his eyes as Nano shoves the man off her shoulder.

The man blinks slowly as he watches Ross pull Nano’s mask out from where it has been pressed against his ribs under his jacket, and throw it to her. She catches it with ease and puts it on, and now Westwood looks scared. 

He drops his cigarette and lurches forward, trying to take a swing at Smith, who he seems to think is the biggest threat here. Smith easily steps out of the stumbling man’s path, and Ross grabs Westwood by the arms, holding him up so his feet are dangling a few centimetres off the ground. He struggles a bit, but it’s futile.

Smith takes one last drag before dropping his own cigarette and crushing it into the ground with the heel of his shoe. It’s red tip is still visible, the indicator that it was the only one in the pack not cut with Cyclopropane. He reminds himself to thank Nano for the idea to use anesthetics later. Westwood didn’t inhale enough to be completely knocked out, but it means he can’t fight back or call for help, which is useful.

“What do you want?” Westwood says, his attention increases due fear.

“Listen buddy.” Smith says, stalking towards him. “We’re just here to have a good time, you know? See the sights, enjoy the heat, gamble a little, kill a few people.”

At this Smith whips out his knife, and Westwood’s eyes are unable to leave the sparkling blade. Oh yeah, that’s the face he’s been waiting to see. Smith grins and continues.

“So if we gotta kill someone, might as well make it worthwhile, ya know? Personally, I don’t really care who the person is; prey is prey. But my lovely friends here actually have little slivers of humanity left in them, which leads us to you.”

Smith points the knife right at Westwoods neck, and the man gulps. 

“You, Michael Westwood, are a bad man. A very bad man indeed. You are one of the worst drug lords I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, actually, so congrats for that. But, seriously? Cutting your wares with even more addictive shit and then keeping the clean stuff for yourself? That’s low. Even for me.”

Trott steps forward, and swiftly lands a strong high kick to Westwood’s chest. The man grunts as all the wind is knocked from him, and Trott tuts.

“Cutting Heroin with LSD.” The selkie snarls. “Cocaine with Ket. Mandy with Meth. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Ross drops Westwood, and he crumples in on himself, holding his chest and groaning. And now, surprising most everyone, Nano steps forward. With strength Ross didn’t expect from her tiny figure, she stomps on Westwood’s left kneecap. And, yep, legs aren’t supposed to bend that way. Westwood howls with pain.

“That was for all the people you killed with overdoses.” She spits.

“Nano.” Ross says, his tone warning. Last thing they needed was someone hearing them. Smith watches her; he seems impressed.

“And this.” She growls through gritted teeth, stomping down on his other knee. “Is for all the girls you sold to the trade.”

Ross raises his eyebrows, his surprise ignoring Westwood’s whimpers of agony.

“Right.” Smith says, placing a hand on Nano’s shoulder. “Let’s finish this.”

Nano nods, and steps back against the wall, next to Ross. She leans against him, and he wraps an arm around her. She’s shaking. Smith ends the kill quickly, with a sharp stab to the prey’s frontal lobe. They make sure the death is different each time, to avoid suspicion. Trott checks the area for any evidence they’d been here, and once it’s clear they leave.

All Westwood wanted was more, he created a black hole of debut and addition around him. But now he’s gone, and the sinkhole is plugged. One less monster in the world. 

Later, Nano curls up against Ross side, and he strokes her hair. Smith watches, and something green tints his eyes. Ross eye’s him wearily, and beckons for him to join. He doesn’t, choosing to go and clean their weapons instead. Ross makes a mental note of his behaviour as he feels Nano fall asleep against him.

 

~ Lust ~

 

~ Wrath ~

 

Smith is angry. Smith wants to fucking punch a wall until the stone begs for mercy. His jaw is clenched and his fists are tight. His internal monologue is a series of repeating ‘FUCK!’s over and over again.

Of all the limited emotions Smith feels, anger is one of the rarest. Usually it’s ecstasy or glee. Occasionally it’s lust or greed. Sometimes he feels protective. Sometimes he feels nothing. But tonight the red hot anger rears it’s putrid head once more, growling and snapping at anyone close by. Smith is fucking pissed.

He needs to kill, and soon. He’s been quipping at Trott all day, unhelpful insults spilling out of his mouth like burning embers.

~ Envy ~  
~ Sloth ~  
~ Pride ~


	4. Heist [UMY]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another UMY fic, I may come back to this one as well. But the plot would be very complicated, and I wasn't really sure how to tackle it.

“That’s it.” Nano hissed. “I’m calling it.”

Eyes narrowing as she watched another five goblins enter the basement, Nano gritted her teeth, that was 37 in total. The air was clear this evening, and the lack of cover on the rooftop made Nano feel exposed and uncomfortable. One hand flitting nervously along the cusp of the tin roof, she heard Lom sigh from the palm of her hand. Raising the compact mirror to watch as the small, shimmering image of Lomadia frown at her.

“Really?” She asked. “You can’t take them?”

“Clear night? No cover? Enclosed space with multiple enemies?” Nano shot back. “I do stealth, not mass destruction.”

“But you know people who do.”

“Another thing I don’t do is call for backup.” Nano growled. She leant back on the roof, taking her hand off the edge to run it through her pixie cut, buzzed on the left side.

“Come on, how long have you been chasing this key?” Lom asked. “It’s being kept here for the night before the escort picks it up and takes it out of the city, this is your last chance.”

Nano sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. She was right. Closing the compact on Lom’s smirking face, Nano shuffled away from the edge of the roof, back towards her pack. She unzipped the front pocket of the backpack and pulled out her make-up bag. Slipping her compact in, she paused, fingers tickling over each product in indecision, before finally picking out a soft bronzing powder and a brush.

The make-up bag was put back, and Nano pulled a small glass phial out of one of the inside pockets. Applying a little bit of the bronzer to the outstretched palm of her hand, Nano sniffed to check she had the right amount. Nodding to herself, she applied a bit more, before putting the powder down and uncapping the phial. The scent of the magic solution within hit her instantly, easily replacing the smell of the chemical with a strong lavender. Reacting to the oxygen in the air, the solution shivered and changed to a deep blue.

A few drops was all she needed, as the magic solution and chemical powder reacted with each other instantly. The white Benzodiazepine powder provided a general anesthetic, and the Willow leaf and rainwater solution let it slip in through the pores of her hand, numbing the magic within. On her outstretched palm, the faint scar of a cut shone a royal blue, and Nano felt the static bond in the back of her mind fluctuate softly. A message.

It didn’t take long for them to arrive. Nano had retreated to a few roofs back, knowing they they were going to make a lot of noise and not wanting to alert any of the goblins. She watched as their car pulled up, an old green thing with bullet holes peppering the passenger doors and a grumbling engine. She knew better than to ask why the kelpie wouldn’t replace it. Knowing that it would take them a while to get up onto the roof, she descended softly, landing next to the car. Smoothly, she opened the back door, and slid in next to the nervous gargoyle.

“What’s wrong?” Ross asked, cutting to the chase. His eyes flicked up and down her body, checking for injury.

Nano sighed, already regretting her decision. 

“I need your help.”

“Welp.” Smith said from the driver’s seat. “Have fun. Don’t stay out too late and try not to be impaled by anything copper or barbed. Don’t forget snacks. We’ll pick you up at eleven tomorrow.”

“I need all your help.” Nano said regretfully, meeting the kelpie’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They widened for a second in surprise before narrowing sharply.

“You’re asking us for help?” Trott questioned, suspicious of the dire circumstances.

“It’s a big job, and I can’t do it alone.”


End file.
